


Then Came Hallelujah Sounding

by InfiniteCalm



Series: Soundings [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Christmas!, Home Ownership, M/M, Nothing sad here, York, requited love oh yeah, richard ellis is the paris hilton of york
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21920323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCalm/pseuds/InfiniteCalm
Summary: Christmas 1929. Richard Ellis receives a guest.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: Soundings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593997
Comments: 15
Kudos: 156





	Then Came Hallelujah Sounding

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Technically this scenario is possible! The sugar beet factory mentioned somewhere is real! We should never have closed the beet industry down, it was madness!  
> Thomas smokes in this because I am not a coward, unlike the people who give films their certificates.  
> The idea came into my head last night and wouldn't leave me alone. Title from Memphis Skyline by Rufus Wainwright.

December 20th, 1929

Thomas’ stomach rumbles so loudly that it interrupts Richard in the middle of his sentence. He presses his hand to his abdomen, frowning. His coat is thick but it looks like it’s seen better days. The lapels are almost unfashionable. That said, his scarf is certainly ordered in from somewhere, or maybe bought on his last trip to London. It brings out his eyes. 

It brings out his eyes- Jesus. That’s a thought he’s only ever had about Thomas. You think when you reach forty that you won’t have new thoughts about people; Richard finds he likes to be proved wrong, if only in this instance.

“You haven’t eaten today?” Richard asks, checking his pocket watch. It’s already past four, and in December that means it’s getting on to darkness.

Thomas stiffens and glances at the ground, like a child caught in the act of committing a minor-but-strange offence. Richard sees the small smile on his mouth before Thomas wipes it away with the back of his hand. He lights up a cigarette.

“Well, I was too nervous, wasn’t I,” he says. 

Richard wants to stop walking when he hears that, but he keeps himself going. His own smile he won’t supress, though. Nervous. Fancy that!

“Well, that won’t do, Mr. Barrow,” he says, lowering his voice. Thomas meets his eye and holds it. He still hasn’t asked where they’re going.

“No need,” he says, holding up his bag. “I’ve got supplies. Just need somewhere to eat them, now.”

“I know just the place.” Richard says.

It takes a while to find one, but after a little swearing, he manages to hail a cab, and gives the address.

Thomas looks at him, a little wary, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not a long drive; maybe it takes twenty minutes. Three miles outside the city. Richard watches the busy streets fade away, bright lights reflecting off the rainy pavement, the city slowly turning more residential and grey (though the children he sees here are better dressed and plumper than their neighbours near the station) and finally the town easing away almost altogether. The driver is silent, and Richard doesn’t want to give Thomas and him away by talking. The whole world, he is sure, would guess their relationship if they heard him. He catches Thomas gazing at him through the window’s reflection. His face appears in the sky.

They drive past a farm, and then the cab pulls to a stop. The fare is less expensive than he thought it would be. A good omen, maybe. The car pulls off as soon as Thomas closes the back door, and then they’re both standing on the road beside the ditch, together.

Ahead of him is the little low gate that Richard remembers visiting when he was a boy. Back then, in the sepia-toned hues of his childhood, there had been plants growing up along it. He remembers the smell of fresh paint here, but not the look of it. To his mind the gate’s always been charmingly run-down. That only happened later, though.

“My uncle and aunt lived here”, Richard explains. “They never had children, and I was their closest male relative.”

“Well knock me down,” Thomas says, understanding what that means. “Are you saying-”

Uncle Bill and Auntie Bet were ninety-four and eighty-nine when they died, leaving behind a great many friends and a lot of money. And the house.

“I’ve come into rather a large inheritance”, Richard says, in a parody of the affected accents of their employers. They stand in silence, looking at the low gate. Suddenly he realises how that sentence came off when he said it out loud, and hopes that no offence was taken-

Thomas starts to laugh, which sets Richard off as well, and then they’re bent over, howling at each other, and when Richard starts to calm down he catches Thomas’ eye and they start laughing all over again. He supports himself on the low stone wall and Thomas has his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth is open and smiling. Richard’s stomach hurts with it.

In fairness, they should be quieter. There _are_ neighbours, and more houses will be built around here soon, so even if they are relatively isolated here it is not the same thing as being _actually_ isolated, and so they should be more careful. But all they’re doing is laughing. That’s not suspicious, surely. And the house is at the end of this lane. Even if it is smaller than it seemed when he was a boy, it’s still away from the road and the other neighbours. This is the kind of windfall that could change a man’s life.

Once he gets his composure back (though perhaps he thinks it will never be the same in Thomas’ eyes- there are not many people who can do this, who can rumple him up, make him present as anything less than _perfectly_ dignified and proper- Oh Thomas, he thinks, who are you and where have you been), he lifts the latch on the gate and waits for Thomas to walk in ahead. Thomas touches the brim of his hat as he passes through but Richard will not laugh, he will not- and they walk up the muddy path together.

His father had been around and informed him with pleasant surprise that Bet had kept the place very well; the kitchen is modern and the house is in good repair. His sisters had worked all week to get it right to live in before Richard arrived up to help. It’s as good as any on the road now, although quite a bit smaller, and brighter than anyone had expected. The stone walls are a pleasant sort of beige colour, the door a cheerful green. The garden, too, is tidy and pleasant, vegetable patches bare now, but it will be easy to sow them next autumn. 

Richard loves this house.

Thomas whistles through his teeth when he sees it- irksome, but forgivable- and turns to Richard.

“This is all yours?”

“Bill was a solicitor,” Richard explains. “So the will is iron-clad. It’s mine. He died two months ago, remember, I was up for the funeral but I couldn’t stay the night.”

“It’s huge,” Thomas says.

Richard turn the new key in the lock and the door- a nice heavy weight on it- opens smoothly. Inside, everything- the floor, the wallpaper, the furniture- is old but clean and hardwearing. It smells fresh, which may only because there’s been no fire lit here all day and it’s freezing. There are four rooms and an attic- the parlour to the left, a kitchen to the right, and two bedrooms down a short hallway. One of the bedrooms is larger than the other. Bill, in a fit of pique, had a sink installed there, which never gave hot water. Richard has stocked the pantry with non-perishables, even though he has to go back to London tomorrow.

“A wreath!” Thomas laughs, and it’s true, there’s a wreath of holly and ivy on the sideboard in the foyer- Marjorie must have left it here as a surprise, he must thank her tomorrow. It looks a little silly here with no other decorations. But then, they’re _his_ decorations. Nothing here is crown property. He can break what he likes, paint what he likes, replace what he likes. Thomas is looking around at the hall with flushed cheeks, maybe due to the cold.

Richard closes the door and makes certain the curtains are closed.

“Merry Christmas, Mr Barrow,” he says, and expects the kiss when it comes.

-

Richard has Thomas up against the kitchen door, and someone’s leg is in just the right spot there, and his hand is on Thomas’ warm hip (his coat carefully hung upon the stand, his scarf still around his neck), Thomas is pulling his hair- _OK-_ and then a loud rumble startles him.

He breaks apart, looking at how bleary Thomas is, soft around the edges, how his eyes are not quite focussed- and notices the embarrassed look on his face.

“Don’t tell me that was your stomach.”

“Well then, it wasn’t my stomach.”

Richard laughs again (his face is always sore from smiling when Thomas comes) and goes to pick up Thomas’ bag from where they dropped it below the hat stand.

“Get your energy up,” he says, handing it to him and opening the door they’d been leaning against. “You’ll need it.”

The look Thomas gives him can only be described as _hungry._

-

They are sitting on the bed, and even though Richard’s set a fire it’s still too cold to take off all their layers. Richard feels like he’s sixteen, though he never got to do this when he actually was sixteen. He thinks Thomas probably kisses better now than then, as well.

“You won’t sell it, will you?” Thomas asks, and then, maybe because Richard takes too long to respond and he’s feeling vulnerable without his cuffs tied and the glove off, he adds, “because the Americans and their economy, you know, them upstairs are worried about it. You won’t get what it’s worth.”

Richard has been so busy with the will and the arrangements he’s had to start making in London that reading the newspaper has become a luxurious pastime, but even he’s heard of the crash. It’s bad news. He hopes it won’t be as hard as they’re saying- but the money he’s come into is enough to see him through. There’s a job going in the beet factory on the other side of the city that a family friend has assured him. It will get him through. It will have to.

“Thomas”, Richard says. He puts his hand on Thomas’s bare knee and hopes he doesn’t get coal dust on it. The room is starting to warm up. “I will not sell this house.”

“Oh,” Thomas says.

“And it’s not because of the market rate,” Richard says, letting his hand drift up Thomas’ leg. Thomas shifts to be closer to him.

“No?”

“I’ve handed in my notice,” Richard says, “I’m coming to live here.”

Thomas lets out a _whoop_ and then claps a hand over his mouth- involuntary, then, but he can’t pretend it’s not the best news either of them have had since September- and Richard pulls him in close. They’re all legs now, folded up, tangled like blankets together. Maybe he could stay like this and die happy.

And then Thomas peels himself away and pulls off his undershirt- he’s got goosebumps all along his arms- and starts to pull up the sheets, and gets distracted by Richard, and Richard does not mind distracting him, and there is something between them this time that has not been there before. This is it. This is it, this is it.

-

They fall asleep afterwards by mistake and Thomas, by some miracle, wakes at four. The next train to Downton leaves York at five; it gets him back (if he runs from the station) before Mrs. Hughes notices he’s gone, though he’ll be tired.

“ _Shit”_ Thomas says. He dresses himself and runs down to fetch his things. He shouts up about getting into York- he won’t be able to get all the way back into the city in time, he’s starting to panic, by the sounds of things. Stupid of them. But the sensation of it, waking up together (however brutal Thomas’ language was when he did check the time), was almost worth it.

“There’s a bike behind the shed! Chain and keys next to it!” Richard calls. “It’s a direct road into town!”

He pulls on a jumper from the chest of drawers beside the sink (which has already proved itself most useful) and heads down the stairs. Thomas is fully dressed and heading out the back door in the kitchen. Richard watches him fuss, and then fusses a bit himself when Thomas wheels the bike in through the kitchen and out into the hall.

“Your scarf!” Richard says, when he notices Thomas’ bare neck.

“You keep it,” Thomas says. “You had your eyes on it yesterday, I did notice. I’ll lock the bike near the station- I’ll telephone to tell you where.”

“Careful on the roads,” Richard says. He feels like somebody’s wife- he regrets not having a lunch to pack him. He opens the door and follows Thomas out.

“You’re back to London today?” Thomas says, mounting the bike. If Richard were somebody’s wife, he could kiss him goodbye in the open. Instead, a brush of their hands that could be accidental will have to do. Thomas knows what it means.

“But not for very long,” Richard says, and that gets him a bright, bright smile. Thomas lights a cigarette and sets off.

Richard watches him cycle down the road for as far as he can see the orange embers of the cig. The rain has held off and the night is calm. Soon the neighbours will be getting up.

One of the last nights of the old decade. God only knows what the next will hold. Richard closes the door of the new house and sees Thomas’ scarf hanging on the hat stand, next to his own, and feels such a great surge of love and joy that he cannot bear to keep it inside. He lights a lamp in the parlour and sits down at the old desk there.

_York, 21/12/29_

_My Dear Thomas,_ he writes.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to all Thomas Barrow fans, especially my fellow lesbians! find me on tumblr [@meryton-etc](https://meryton-etc.tumblr.com/)


End file.
